


You Can Count on Me to Misbehave

by inoubliable



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bets & Wagers, Designer Beverly, Flirting, Friendship, I know that shocks everyone, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Meet-Cute, Model Eddie, Mutual Pining, Photographer Richie, Richie is very unprofessional, Sexual Humor, Texting, hints of bisexual Bev bc it keeps my skin clear, i don't make the rules, the losers have all casually hooked up okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 14:30:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13102134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: Eddie is hired to model for an alternative lifestyle ad campaign. Richie is the photographer. Eddie tries to be professional. Richie does not.--“It’s this Saturday at 9 AM. The photographer has a studio downtown, I’ll text you the address. His name is Richie Tozier, if you want to Facebook stalk him.”“I’m not going to stalk him, Stan,” he says huffily, knowing full-well that he’s going to be googling the name. Eddie likes knowing the people he’s going to work with. Sue him. He jotsRichie Tozieron the corner of his notepad and follows the name with the rest of the details that Stan provides.





	1. i could be your supermodel (if you see it in me)

**Author's Note:**

> Eddie's ringtone for Stan is "The Man" by the Killers, which was suggested to me by [Bridget](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMightyChipmunk/pseuds/TheMightyChipmunk), the Queen of Meet-Cute AUs.
> 
> Title from "Primadonna" by Marina and the Diamonds.  
> Chapter title from "Supermodel" by SZA.

Eddie is asleep when he gets the call. It’s something like six in the morning – he’s not sure of the exact time because he doesn’t even crack his eyes open when he fumbles to answer his phone. Personalized ringtones are so 2007, but he makes an exception for his agent so he won’t ever accidentally ignore the call. Stan hates that.

_I know the score like the back of my hand. Them other boys, I don’t give a –_

“H’lo?”

“Eddie? You’re still sleeping?”

Stan wakes up at four in the morning, every morning. Eddie… does not. He rubs his bleary eyes and rolls over onto his back, tangled in the sheets. The clock on the wall says _6:43_ in cheery red neon that does not match Eddie’s blackening mood. “I’m awake,” he says, and it sounds only marginally believable.

Stan gives an unconvinced hum. “I was calling about a job.”

Eddie is instantly more awake. “Yeah? What’s the job?”

“A small non-profit is doing an ad campaign, aimed at embracing alternative lifestyles.” Stan sounds like he’s reading from a script or, more likely, from a casting call. _So it’s a gay thing_ , Eddie thinks, and tries not to feel bitter. It’s not Stan’s fault that most of the people searching for small, soft male models are part of the gay community. “I know how it sounds,” Stan says, and his voice is less caustic, like he understands how Eddie feels. “But they’re actually paying really well, and the campaign is pretty cool. Plus, the photographer is good. They sent me his portfolio.”

It’s extremely unprofessional that Stan is having to coax him into agreeing, but Stan is not just his agent. Stan’s his friend. They’ve known each other for years, and Eddie trusts his opinion. Which is why they both know Eddie is going to agree to the shoot.

“When is it?” he asks, reaching for the pen and paper he keeps on his nightstand for calls like these.

“It’s this Saturday at 9 AM. The photographer has a studio downtown, I’ll text you the address. His name is Richie Tozier, if you want to Facebook stalk him.”

“I’m not going to stalk him, Stan,” he says huffily, knowing full-well that he’s going to be googling the name. Eddie likes knowing the people he’s going to work with. Sue him. He jots _Richie Tozier_ on the corner of his notepad and follows the name with the rest of the details that Stan provides.

\--

By 9 AM on Saturday, Eddie is properly excited about the photoshoot. There’s always something thrilling about it, waking up with the knowledge that he’s going to be in front of the camera within a few short hours. Eddie admittedly likes attention, and he _loves_ the lens.

He did end up researching his photographer. Richie Tozier is not just good, he’s great. His website is a little bare-bones, but his photographs are emotive and personal, like he’s good friends with all of his models. Eddie does not plan on being good friends with Richie, because he is a little more professional than that, but he wants to see if Richie can make him look like the people in his pictures. There is something so open and honest about the way the heavily-featured redheaded model laughs in the photographs, the way the dark-skinned man’s eyes crinkle up, the way the boy with the huge expressive blue eyes smirks.

Stan meets Eddie at the studio, as put-together as he always is, two coffee cups in his hands. He hands one to Eddie, and it’s the perfect two-creams to three-sugars ratio. Stan takes his own coffee black, but he has never failed to make Eddie’s right. He is a great agent, and an even greater friend. One day Eddie will convince him to sleep in, and he will be perfect.

He leads Eddie into a room that looks somehow both controlled and chaotic, clothes strewn over racks and hanging haphazardly from hangers in color-coordinated rows. There are several people standing around in various states of undress. Eddie is not surprised that most of them are women. He _is_ surprised to recognize one of them.

She’s standing in the middle of the mess, her red hair pulled away from her face, highlighting severe cheekbones and a smile Eddie recognizes from the photographer’s website. She is dressed in high-waisted jeans and a black and white striped cropped shirt, looking very chic. She doesn’t have shoes on, and she’s talking to a girl who is clearly another model, hair curled in perfect spirals and mouth painted red.

Stan waits patiently for her to finish her conversation before he intercepts her attention, holding his hand out to her. “You’re Beverly, correct? I’m Stan. We spoke on the phone.”

Beverly’s entire face lights up when she smiles, just like in the pictures. “Yes, hi! You’re early.”

“Stan’s always early,” Eddie can’t help but say, and Beverly looks at him. There’s a split-second where Eddie feels like he’s being examined, and then she releases Stan’s hand to take his.

“You must be Eddie,” she says warmly. “Your portfolio doesn’t do you justice, which is saying a lot. Where do I sign up for lips like those?”

Eddie is probably the only model in the world who still blushes over compliments. “I’m sure someone in this town could hook you up with a good plastic surgeon,” he offers, and she laughs, high and delighted. She lets go of his hand only to touch his shoulder, then slides her fingers down to his elbow, almost like she’s measuring him by touch alone.

“Oh, you’re going to look so good,” she sighs. “Richie’s going to love you.”

Eddie gets the feeling that Beverly and Richie are close, which explains the pictures and how natural she looks in them. She’s an effortless sort of beauty, but Eddie gets the feeling she’s usually a behind the scenes mastermind than the subject of a shoot.

“Beverly is a designer,” Stan explains in a low voice when someone calls for Beverly’s attention and she politely excuses herself. “She works with the non-profit.”

Eddie watches her from across the room, where she holds a shirt up against a girl who is wearing only underwear. Beverly laughs at something the girl says, and something about the look on her face makes Eddie ask, “Is she…?”

“Gay?” Stan gives him an unimpressed look, but his eyes are amused. “I don’t usually ask.”

“You asked _me_ ,” Eddie grumbles.

“I had to know what you were comfortable with in terms of bookings,” Stan replies haughtily. His smile goes sharp and teasing. “And I needed to know if my gaydar was accurate.” He eyes Eddie up and down, more of a clinical examination than a come-on. “It was, by the way.”

A girl with a stack of clothes in her arms approaches them before Eddie can properly tell Stan to fuck off, but he manages to surreptitiously shoot Stan the bird as he’s led away to get dressed.

\--

In all, there are eight models, including Eddie. He is the only boy. He’s used to it.

Beverly’s designs are nice. They’re good quality, and they fit him well with only the most minor adjustment. The jeans have to be cuffed, but that usually happens. Eddie is pretty short, both for a guy and for a model. He’s usually upset about it, but Beverly is so kind and doesn’t seem to mind in the least. In fact, she looks downright thrilled with the way he looks.

“Gorgeous,” she tells him happily, smoothing down an invisible wrinkle near his shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“Great,” he assures her, and he’s not lying.

Eddie is scheduled to be photographed last, so he spends most of his day in the small hectic dressing room. The other girls come and go, changing in and out of Beverly’s clothes. A couple of them talk to him, but most of them don’t. Eddie doesn’t mind. Models are competitive by nature, and most of them are wary of male models who look like he does. It’s one thing to be a six-foot, ripped piece of meat for them to hang off in a picture. It’s another thing for him to be as pretty as they are.

He didn’t wear any makeup to the shoot, but Beverly passes him a Ziploc bag full of mascaras and a truly intimidating array of lip gloss with a wink, which he takes as a hint. The thought of using someone else’s makeup makes him feel nauseous, but everything in the bag is visibly new, most of it still wrapped in plastic. He takes out a black kohl eyeliner pencil and smudges it between his bottom lashes, as subtly as he can, and then dots his lower lip with clear gloss. He looks pretty, and gay as hell. He thinks maybe that’s the point.

It’s almost one in the afternoon when Eddie meets Richie Tozier for the first time.

Richie is tall. His wild hair and big glasses sort of obscure his face. He shakes Eddie’s hand. His fingers are rough and warm. His teeth are sort of crooked when he smiles. He’s fucking handsome.

“You were right,” Richie says to Beverly, over Eddie’s head. Eddie should be used to it, but he actually has to tilt his head back to look up at Richie, and it’s somewhere between embarrassing and kind of hot. Eddie has always been attracted to tall men. Always want what you don’t have, or something like that.

“I told you so,” Beverly says smugly. She winks at Eddie. _Richie’s going to love you_ , she had said. Eddie can’t help but feel pleased.

The studio is large and open. One wall is almost exclusively made of windows, and the midday light casts the whole room in a bright white glow. There is a mattress on the floor, draped with messy white sheets, like someone has been rolling around in them. All of the girls from before, probably. Eddie swallows his instinctive disgust.

Richie leads him to the mattress and has him kneel on it. Richie does not crouch down, which leaves Eddie on his knees, staring up at him from the makeshift bed. He is too professional to consider what it must look like, but Richie pauses for a second, his expression considering. He’s probably thinking about angles, or lighting, or something equally technical. He backs away and raises the camera to his face. Eddie slides his knees apart and settles into a pose. He is not used to being attracted to his photographer, but he is used to this.

Neither of them speak for several moments. Richie does not direct him, and Eddie likes that. He likes being able to figure out his own posing. It’s even better because, while Richie doesn’t say anything, he’s still sort of noisy, making appreciative sounds whenever Eddie moves in a way he likes.

“Your name is Eddie, right?” Richie asks after awhile. His voice is low, and kind of rough. Eddie nods. “How long have you been doing this, Eddie?”

Eddie does not think he’s asking how long Eddie has spent posing in bed. “I started when I was eighteen.”

Richie looks at him over the top of the camera. “You mean you’re not eighteen now?”

Eddie gives him a flat look that Richie unfortunately catches on film. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Baby face,” Richie says, like Eddie doesn’t _know_. Eddie tries not to look annoyed. It’s not a pretty look. “What got you into modeling? Did you just look in the mirror one day and realize how gorgeous you are?”

Eddie does not know how he’s made it this far when he still gets flattered and flustered by someone calling him gorgeous.

“Something like that.” He shrugs, a small movement that doesn't disturb his position. “It kind of started in college. My roommate Ben dabbled in photography for awhile. He didn’t end up doing anything with it, but I loved modeling for him.” He realizes he’s talking too much for Richie to get a picture so he shuts his mouth.

The shutter clicks a few times, and then Richie says, “Have you ever posed nude?” He snaps a picture of the shocked look Eddie gives him, and then hums appreciatively. “Oh, that was good. Very doe-eyed. Keep that up.”

Well, Eddie can do doe-eyed. That’s what he’s good at.

“The eyeliner was a good choice,” Richie tells him. “You’ve got pretty eyes. Bedroom eyes.”

“Is this supposed to be a sexy shoot?” Eddie asks, caught between puzzled and amused.

“Are you capable of doing a shoot that isn’t sexy?” Richie returns, sounding very serious, and takes several pictures of Eddie’s blush.

Richie pauses then and takes the camera away from his face. He returns to the edge of the mattress but he kneels down this time. “Lie down for me,” he says, and his voice is probably just quiet because he’s considering the shot, but it makes Eddie’s blood fizzle. He does what Richie asks, his back against the mattress, his face aimed towards the ceiling. He’s sure Richie’s going to stand up and take the photos that way, but he doesn’t. He leans in and takes Eddie’s chin in his hand, tilting Eddie’s face the way he wants it. It’s the first time Richie has touched him since they shook hands, and Eddie does not want to think about why his stomach tightens.

“Keep your face towards me, like this,” Richie directs, still sounding incredibly soft. “This is really good lighting for you.” He raises the camera and his voice is muffled when he says, “Don’t know that I could find lighting that you look bad in, but you know what I mean.”

Eddie closes his eyes briefly, and then looks at Richie from underneath his lashes, overwhelmed by how complimentary Richie is but not wanting to ruin the shot. Richie hisses through his teeth.

“Jesus, that’s nice. Je- _sus_.” Eddie can’t help it this time and he rolls his head away, but Richie just snaps another photo and murmurs something about his throat that sounds painfully approving.

“Do you talk to all of your models like this?” he can’t help but ask. It would be easier if Richie said yes. He could use the reminder that he isn’t special and that this is just another photoshoot for Richie’s admittedly impressive portfolio.

But Richie gives him a crinkly-eyed smile and says, “Only when they’re pretty.” And that’s not an answer, because models are always pretty, it’s their _job_ , but Richie follows it up with, “And they’re very rarely as pretty as you.”

Richie is a shameless flirt, Eddie decides, and he is stupidly, stupidly charmed by it. The soft smile he gives the camera is not entirely posed.

\--

It’s two weeks later, and Richie Tozier is just the genius behind a particularly gorgeous series of photos in his portfolio. Nothing more, not that Eddie expected anything. The rest of the photoshoot had gone much the same as the rest – Richie was flirty and managed to call Eddie beautiful in at least twenty different ways, but he was still the photographer and their session was finished when Richie felt he’d gotten the shot. Granted, it took longer than Eddie thought it really should have, especially if Eddie looked as good as Richie kept assuring him he did, but he didn’t mention it. It wasn’t a hardship, lying there, the subject of all Richie’s attention.

If he thought about what it would be like without a camera between them, well, no one had to know.

Eddie is spending the night in a very unglamorous fashion, dressed in pajama pants and an athletic department sweatshirt from a school he didn’t even attend. He’s pretty sure it belonged to Ben at one point, but it’s big and warm and comfortable, and it really completes his homeless-chic ensemble. Ben is never, ever getting it back.

His phone rings halfway through an America’s Next Top Model rerun. It’s Eddie’s guilty pleasure show. Sometimes he stands in his living room and copies the poses. Just for practice. Not that he would ever admit that, even under penalty of death. He’s gay, but he’s not _that_ gay.

The number isn’t familiar, and Eddie considers not answering. It’s probably not a job. Ever since Stan started representing him, almost all of his offers are extended through the agency. But there’s always the off-chance that it’s someone he wants to hear from, and it must be pretty important if they’re calling at nearly eleven at night. So he answers. "Hello?"

“Is this Eddie Kaspbrak?” a rough voice asks him, and he knows that voice from somewhere but he can’t remember where.

“Yes…?” he answers cautiously. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

There’s a pause almost like the person isn’t going to say anything, and then that voice says, “It’s Richie Tozier.” Eddie sits up straight on his couch, surprised. “I photographed you the other day,” Richie explains, like Eddie somehow forgot him.

“Richie,” Eddie says, rather dumbly. “Hi.”

“Hi.” A quick pause. Over the phone, Richie is not nearly so confident and flirtatious. It’s just as disarmingly charming. “I’m sorry to call so late. I gotta admit, I’ve had a little bit to drink.” He seems to realize how that sounds, because he rushes to add, “I’m not drunk, or anything. I just, uh. Bev and I went out for drinks. We were talking about you.”

“You were?” Richie was talking about him. Richie was thinking about him. Eddie can’t stop smiling. “What were you talking about?”

And maybe Eddie’s obvious amusement bolsters his confidence, because Richie says, “Your pretty face, mostly. Your body might have come up, too.” It’s so stupidly, overtly flirty that Eddie can’t help but laugh. He can practically feel the tension drain from the conversation. “Oh, man, who laughs like that in real life? You can’t be completely perfect, Eds, it’s not fair to us mere mortals.”

Eddie bites his lip so he won’t laugh again. “Did you call me just to tell me how perfect I am?”

“No,” Richie says. “I’m sure you have a whole roster of guys who do that for you.” There’s another pause, and Richie’s voice is softer when he says, “Did you like the pictures?”

“I loved them,” Eddie tells him honestly. “They’re beautiful, Richie.”

“You’re beautiful,” Richie returns, and he doesn’t sound like he’s being combative. “I just managed to capture that. Not that it was hard. The camera loves your face. It’s an easy face to love.”

“Do you love my face, Richie?” Eddie asks, smiling.

“Whoa, baby, it’s a little soon for the l-word, don’t you think?” he says, like he didn’t say it first. “Let’s just say I am very fond of your face. And I would like to see it again soon.”

“I’m confused. Are you asking me out, or do you want to take my photo again?"

Richie’s answer is immediate. “Both.” Eddie can hear his stupid smirk. “That studio bed is not the only one I wanna take pictures of you in.”

“Very professional of you,” Eddie says flatly.

“I’m very dedicated to my work,” Richie agrees. “Is it a crime for me to get to know my models?”

“Do you get to know all your models like this?” Eddie asks, only half-joking.

“Only when they’re pretty,” Richie tells him, the same thing he said during the photoshoot. “And they’re-“

“Rarely as pretty as me,” Eddie finishes. “Get new material, Casanova.”

Richie’s laugh is more of a bark than anything, and it’s pretty loud in Eddie’s ear. Eddie really likes the sound of it. “That wasn’t a no, Eds,” he says.

“It wasn’t a yes either,” Eddie points out.

“It wasn’t?” Richie asks, sounding kind of smug, and Eddie wonders how Richie already knows his tells.

“It’s a maybe,” he relents.

“I’ll take it!” Richie’s enthusiasm makes Eddie laugh again. “You know what? Phone calls are underrated. I don’t think I’ve called someone since 2005, but this is nice.”

Eddie gets the feeling Richie could talk all night. Eddie would probably let him, and that’s just stupid. Eddie hasn’t lost sleep talking to a guy since high school. “I’m hanging up on you now.”

“Goodnight, gorgeous. Hope you dream about me.”

“I won’t,” Eddie tells him brightly, and the sound of Richie’s laughter rings in his ear as he ends the call. He stares at his call log for a long moment, the unfamiliar number sitting right at the top. He selects it and adds _Richie Tozier_ to his contact list. He considers his options for a moment, and then tacks on a camera, and the heart-eyes emoji. He tells himself it’s because that’s the way Riche looks at him.

If he’s feeling a little bit like there might be hearts in his own eyes, well, no one has to know.


	2. take one for the team (you all know what i mean)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "I’ve Got All This Ringing in My Ears and None on My Fingers" by Fall Out Boy.

_They kiss on the ring, I carry the crown. Nothing can break, nothing can break me –_

“You’ve got to stop calling me this early,” Eddie sighs into the phone, opening his eyes to peer blearily at the clock where it glows a cheery red across the room. It’s dawn, but just barely. The room is still mostly dark, and those bright neon numbers are the only real illumination. _7:12._ Jesus Christ.

“Early?” Stan repeats, and he sounds scandalized. “It’s practically noon.”

Eddie groans and throws the covers over his face. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“My sleep schedule is not a joke,” Stan says, and God, doesn’t Eddie know it. He’s the one waking up three times a week to the sound of Stan’s ringtone, which is an objectively good song, but has started to give him the Pavlovian response of wanting to gouge his own eyes out.

“Stan,” Eddie says, trying to sound calm. He sounds mostly tired. “You are my sunshine. Don’t get me wrong, I love waking up to the sound of your voice. But we both get paid based on how pretty I am, and I am not pretty when I don’t get enough sleep.”

“I wish we could get paid based on how dramatic you are,” Stan says, sounding amused. “We’d be millionaires.” Eddie is very seriously considering hanging up on him, but he continues before Eddie has the chance. “Beverly Marsh called me last night.”

It takes Eddie a long time to realize Beverly Marsh is beautiful red-headed designer Bev, but once he makes the connection, he’s instantly more awake. “What did she say?”

Stan can clearly tell that Eddie is suddenly interested in the conversation, and he sounds smug. “The campaign is hosting an event they want you to be part of.”

Oh. Eddie’s short-lived excitement fades. It’s one thing to pose for a picture. It’s quite another to sit still and look pretty for an entire night to represent an organization he’s not even really part of.

Stan hears and understands his hesitation. “I think they’re extending an invitation as a thank you gesture. Show up, have a few drinks at their expense, shake a few hands. It sounds fun.”

It does not sound fun, and they both know it. But Stan is not asking as a friend. He’s telling Eddie this as his agent, which means that there is only one correct response.

“Fine. I’ll go.” He picks up the little notebook on his nightstand and jots down the details: black tie dress code, strictly enforced, in one of the larger convention center conference rooms, the following Friday at 7PM. 

\--

 _My dick is hard for Sigourney Weaver_ , Richie texts him later that day, apropos of nothing. Eddie did not go back to sleep after Stan’s wake-up call, so he’s been in a pretty bitter mood all day, but the message still makes him laugh. Richie makes him laugh a lot. They’ve been texting almost daily since Richie first called him three weeks ago. The conversation almost always starts in similar fashion, which Richie sending something spontaneous and Eddie hanging on for the ride.

 _Are you cheating on me with Sigourney Weaver?_ he sends back, and follows it with, _Cause I don’t blame you. She’s badass._

Richie sends a string of emojis that have no significance – he does this often enough that Eddie has stopped trying to decipher whatever hidden meaning there might be – and then texts, _Aren’t you gay??_

Eddie rolls his eyes. _Gay men can appreciate badass women. We’re actually really good at it. Go to a Lady Gaga concert sometime._

 _Lady Gaga is not a badass,_ Richie returns almost immediately.

 _This is grounds for a breakup,_ Eddie tells him, followed by three broken heart emojis.

_You know, you sure are making a lot of relationship references for someone who still hasn’t gone on a date with me._

Eddie stares at Richie’s reply for a long time, so long that Richie must get nervous, because he sends another text.

_Luckily for you, I’m a forgiving kind of guy. I’ll let you make it up to me. Dinner, this Friday? Your treat._

He wants so fervently to accept that it takes him a minute to remember why he can’t. Of course Richie would pick the one day that he actually has plans. The universe just works that way for Eddie Kaspbrak.

_I can’t. I told Stan I would go to that non-profit event. Didn’t Beverly invite you?_

There is a long pause in the conversation.

 _I have been informed that I am on the guest list_ , Richie sends eventually. _She has apparently invited me twice, and is now angry that I have to hear it from you to be interested._

Richie is just as effortlessly flirtatious over text as he is in person. Eddie is still learning how not to be so charmed by it.

 _Are you going, then?_ he asks, and tells himself he doesn’t care what the answer is.

He’s a fucking liar, because his entire life feels a little bit brighter when Richie’s next text says _Do you really think I’d miss the chance to see that pretty face? Of course I’ll be there._

 _It’s a date, then,_ he sends, and can’t stop smiling when Richie sends back a string of multicolored hearts.

\--

He makes the mistake of telling Stan.

Stan is, to say the least, unamused.

“You’re going to this event with Richie Tozier,” he says, and his voice sounds so calm that it is quite clear that calm is the last thing he’s feeling.

Eddie nods, slowly, not sure what he’s done wrong.

“Richie Tozier,” Stan repeats, with a sort of emphasis that just confuses Eddie more. “The photographer.”

“You know that’s who I’m talking about, Stan,” Eddie says, annoyed by the dramatics. “What’s wrong with photographers?”

Stan waves a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter that he’s a photographer. It matters that he’s _the_ photographer for the campaign. You can’t show up to a campaign event on his arm. It looks tacky.”

Eddie is not usually in the business of admitting when Stan has a point, but… Stan has a point. He’s been kinda, sorta talking to Richie for weeks, but they still met for the first time on set because of a job. The campaign has been featuring Eddie’s photo pretty heavily – a campaign that is backed by an organization that Beverly is part of. Beverly, who is Richie’s best friend. It’s sort of a six degrees of separation thing, which happens all the time in such a small city. Eddie could probably get away with it if he showed up with Richie, but he really wants people to think his picture is good because he’s a good model, not because he’s fucking the photographer.

Because it isn’t even true. He _isn't_ fucking Richie. He just wants to.

“I’m not saying you can’t bring a date, Eddie,” Stan says, completely misunderstanding why Eddie looks disappointed. “I’m just saying it shouldn’t be him.”

“Well, then, who should it be?”

Stan smiles slowly, like a particularly vicious shark, and Eddie realizes he walked right into that one.

\--

It’s a quarter til one on Tuesday afternoon, and Richie woke up fifteen minutes ago. He was supposed to meet his friends for coffee at 12:30, but none of them have texted him yet even though he’s still five minutes from their usual Starbucks. They’re all already gathered when he arrives, sipping various sizes of coffee, and they look surprised to see him, which isn’t really fair. Honestly, you miss one morning meetup and it’s like no one ever trusts you again.

“We weren’t expecting you for another hour,” Beverly tells him, her hands cupped around some drink that is probably both bitter and disgusting.

“Actually, we weren’t expecting you at all,” Mike amends. He is drinking tea, decaffeinated, because the poor man does not love himself.

“Yeah, s-suh-some of us have l-lives,” Bill adds. “We cuh-can’t wait around all d-day.” Bill takes his coffee like he takes his men: black, strong, keeps you up all night. (That’s the same joke Richie has made since Mike and Bill started hooking up in college, and it still never gets old.)

Richie ignores them all and sits down with his Frappuccino, which is an absolute mockery of both coffee and the cold weather. It is also the only thing he drinks, regardless of the temperature. Sugar hypes him up far more than caffeine ever could, and he can’t stand the bitter bite of actual coffee. There’s not enough cream and sugar in the world to make it tolerable, in his opinion.

“I’ve gathered you here today,” he starts, very seriously, “to discuss my love life.”

Beverly squints at him. “I made this plan,” she says.

“And the last thing I want to talk about is your love life,” Mike adds, eyeing Richie distrustfully. “No offense.”

Richie crosses his arms on the table and leans into them. “Tell me, how is that not offensive?”

“Because the l-last time we asked, you t-told us all you want, and I qu-quote, is to ‘r-rail someone so ha-hard your dick t-touches their uvula,’” Bill says flatly. “We’ve st-stuh-stopped asking.”

“What’s a uvula?” Beverly asks, because she had been too sick to come to the bar and watch Richie get drunk off four Moscow mules, and had managed to miss that particular conversation.

“The little thing that hangs in the back of your throat,” Richie answers absently. He points at Bill defensively. “I stand by that comment. Even more now, probably, because I’m in love.”

Richie claims to be in love every other week, so none of his friends seem convinced. But he’s serious this time, dammit.

“Is it Eddie?” Beverly asks, a little smile playing on her mouth. She had come to Richie’s house after the photoshoot. The intention had been to watch him edit the photos, which had turned into listening to Richie wax poetic about Eddie’s huge eyes and full lips for three whole hours.

“Who is Eddie?” Mike asks, looking interested despite his claim that he did not want to discuss Richie’s personal life. Bill looks skeptical, like this is a setup for another joke. His skepticism flickers into surprise when Richie gives a dreamy sigh and props an elbow on the table, leaning his chin heavily into his hand.

“It’s Eddie,” he confirms. The taste of Eddie’s name in his mouth is even sweeter than the drink in front of him made almost entirely of sugar.

Mike gives him a few patient seconds, then says, “I’m sorry, maybe you didn’t hear me.” He clears his throat, and then raises his voice, a controlled boom that makes several people look at their table. “ _Who is Eddie?_ ”

Bill buries his face in his hands and Bev hides her smile with her coffee cup. Richie, not at all perturbed by attention or noise, blinks once, slowly.

“The love of my life,” he says, like he’s confused Mike had to ask. “What part of that did you miss?”

“Eddie is one of the models Richie took pictures of for my campaign,” Bev explains, taking pity on Mike, who looks like he’s considering how to throttle Richie in public and not get caught. Mike is usually a pretty even-keeled guy, but something about Richie does that to people. Richie considers it a superpower. Most people consider it a nuisance.

“’Took pictures of’ grossly undersells what I do for a living,” Richie says. “But, yes. Eddie is a model, and I had the pleasure of photographing him. In bed. He had eyeliner on. I wanted to—”

“This is d-devolving into exactly the k-kinda conversation I try to avoid with y-you,” Bill interjects. Richie blinks himself out of the fantasy world where, instead of climbing out of the sheets at the end of the shoot, Eddie had rolled around in them with Richie. The gloss on his lips would have smeared, and they would have ruined Bev’s clothes, and he would have made a sound like – 

“Richie, if you get a boner in this Starbucks, I’m leaving,” Beverly warns him, but she’s still grinning, thoroughly amused. 

Richie places his hands on the table, palms down. “We are off topic,” he says, like he isn’t the one who has spent most of the conversation thinking about some combination of Eddie and a bed. “We need to talk about Stan.”

“Who the hell is Stan?” Mike demands, looking at Beverly, like he expects to get an easier answer from her. She opens her mouth to answer, but Richie gets there first.

“I’m glad you asked,” he says calmly. “Stan is Eddie’s agent.”

Bill raises an eyebrow, a trick that Richie is eternally envious of. He practiced in the mirror for years and could just never get the hang of it. “Why are we w-wuh-worried about S-Stan?”

“Because,” Richie says, with a dramatic little sigh that isn’t entirely forced, “my sunshine has informed me that he is attending the campaign event this weekend with his agent instead of with me.”

Mike eyes Richie’s forlorn expression. “Are Eddie and Stan dating?”

Beverly laughs loudly at how horrified Richie suddenly looks. She reaches for his hand and squeezes it. “Stan is definitely gay, but I’m pretty sure they’re not together. I think it’s a publicity thing. Models are weird.”

Richie hadn’t even considered the possibility. “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. You think Stan’s gay? Oh, _fuck_. What if they _are_ together? What if—”

“Eddie definitely takes it,” Beverly says, giving a dirty little hip thrust to emphasize what she means. Bill chokes on his coffee, and Mike laughs loudly enough that people look at them again.

Richie is not amused. “Okay? That doesn’t mean anything. Stan could be giving it to him.” The thought makes him feel sort of nauseous. He doesn’t know when he got in so deep that he wants to be the only one fucking Eddie, but it has apparently happened. Which is, objectively, hilarious, considering they haven’t even gone on a date.

“Stan is not giving it to him,” Beverly says dismissively, like the idea is patently ridiculous. “I’m pretty sure he takes it, too.”

Richie squints at her. “You got all of this just from looking at them?”

She takes a sip of her coffee and looks at him smugly over the cup. “I have an excellent gaydar.”

“I’m n-not sure that’s how a g-gaydar works,” Bill says.

“Fine.” Beverly puts her coffee down and sits up straight, suddenly all business. “We’ll make a bet.”

Mike and Bill both groan. Richie has never once turned down a bet in his life, and he will do everything in his power to win them, especially when there is money on the line. It’s how he managed not to work his senior year of college.

“Twenty bucks,” Bev continues, “says I’m right.”

Richie leans in. “Right about what, specifically?” He’s very professional about his bets. He needs to know all the parameters.

“Eddie is gay.” She holds up a hand before Richie can interrupt that he already _knows_ that. “Eddie is a total bottom. And so is Stan.”

“How am I supposed to find out if Stan is a bottom?” Richie asks, and then his face sort of lights up, like a literal light bulb turned on behind his eyes. He looks at Mike and Bill. Mike is already shaking his head.

“No. Not happening.”

“Mike, _please_.” Richie is not too proud to beg.

“ _No_. I’m not going to sleep with some guy for a bet. That’s horrible, and really creepy.”

“You don’t have to fuck him! Just, like, ask what he’s into.”

“That’s worse!”

“Come on, Mikey. Be a pal. Do it for me.”

“This sounds way too much like that time you convinced me to match you shot for shot and I woke up in the bed of your truck.”

Richie grins. “I’ve told you that I have a separate liver entirely for tequila.” He pats his stomach. “It’s not my fault you don’t listen. Besides, my truck is not the worst place you’ve ever woken up.”

“It was _moving_ ,” Mike says. “We were in an entirely different _town_.”

“Is it r-really the time to d-discuss our college mistakes?” Bill puts in. “My c-coffee isn’t nearly sp-spuh-spiked enough for t-that.”

Beverly puts her hand on Richie’s wrist, almost like she expects him to go digging into his pockets for a flask, which frankly isn’t fair. That was _one time_. “Let’s go back to Stan.”

“Right. Stan.” More specifically, what Stan likes from his sexual encounters, though his friends are even less likely to agree if he phrases it that way out loud. “I’ll pay you,” Richie says.

“No, you w-won’t,” Bill says.

It’s a fair point. “You’re right.” He thinks for a moment. “I’ll suck you off?”

Mike and Bill share a look, and Richie will treasure that brief consideration for the rest of his life, even though they both say no in unison after a couple of seconds.

Beverly must take pity on Richie, because she says, “I’ll get you both into the event this weekend. It’s open bar, and you get to watch Richie make a fool of himself in front of Eddie.”

Much to Richie’s chagrin, they give that offer the most consideration. He has to admit, it’s the best option. Stan will already be at the party. So will Eddie. Alcohol will be involved. It’s the perfect storm.

“Okay,” Bill says, very slowly. “We’ll g-go. But I’m not s-seducing some poor guy j-just so you can get your dick wet.” He points a finger at Richie’s chest, looking extremely serious. Bill’s a real sensitive guy, wouldn’t hurt a flea. Richie is not at all worried about Bill breaking Stan’s heart. From what he’s seen of Stan’s high cheekbones and sharp eyes, he’d be more worried about Stan breaking Bill’s.

He reaches for the hand Bill has extended and yanks it across the table, pressing his lips to Bill’s knuckles. “You are a prince,” _kiss_ , “A god,” _kiss_ , “The best friend a guy could have.” Bill tugs his hand away, laughing, before Richie can manage to kiss him more.

“I’ll go,” Mike agrees, looking amused. “But I’m only going for booze.”

Richie raises his eyebrows. “But what if Stan is looking for some brown sugar?”

Beverly cackles, and Mike throws a balled up napkin at Richie’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all: continue this!  
> Me: writes so much that it has to be split up into 2 more parts bc i have no self-control
> 
> As always, [Bridget](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMightyChipmunk/pseuds/TheMightyChipmunk) gets a special shout-out for being such a damn good cheerleader.  
> 


	3. where have you been (all my night)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from 'Where Have You Been?' by Hey Violet.

Eddie, to put it lightly, is a worrier.

He worries about things before they happen. He worries about things when they happen. He worries about things after they happen. He worries every second in between.

And right now, the fact that he’s not worried is worrying him.

It’s two hours before the event, and he would usually be obsessing over his outfit, but Beverly took all the guesswork out of things by providing clothes for him to wear. It’s a thank-you for participating both in the campaign and the event, and to wear anything else would be beyond tacky. Not that he even wants to. Her clothes are as effortlessly stylish as he remembers.

He tries to concern himself with his hair, but it’s just long enough that it curls sweetly around his ears, and he looks cute even to his own eyes. He has to roll up his shirt sleeves a couple of times, but he stopped wishing for a growth spurt around his junior year of high school and it doesn’t really bother him anymore. He examines his reflection for nearly thirty minutes and, to his own dismay, finds nothing to pick apart.

He would worry about his date, but it’s _Stan_. He’s not at all worried about Stan. Alternatively, he could worry about seeing Richie again, but he’s been texting Richie for weeks now and every conversation is just as easy as the first. Richie is so clearly interested that not even Eddie can doubt him.

So now he’s stuck with two hours to kill, dressed and ready and unconcerned. Stan is picking him up at 6:30 and they will arrive at the event right on time, because Stan is kind of a tightass about scheduling.

He resigns himself to channel-surfing and toys with the idea of texting Richie.

Richie texts him first.

_Can’t wait to see you tonight, gorgeous._

Eddie’s chest feels a little tight, and it’s definitely not from nerves.

* * *

Richie is running late. Story of his life, except that he actually cares this time.

He’s speeding. Mike is in the passenger seat, gripping the door handle with a truly dramatic amount of force. His knuckles are white. Bill, in the back, looks a little nauseous. Richie takes a turn fast enough that his tires whine, and Bill goes pale.

“I told you fuckers,” he says over the sound of Mike’s muttered curses, “this thing starts at 7.”

“You s-said to be _ready_ at 7,” Bill pipes up, his voice wavering a little. Richie considers slowing down, but that would mean disappointing the potential father of his adopted children. He rolls down his window instead so that Bill has some fresh air, a compromise.

He swerves around a car that is going too slow for his liking. “I hope this boy is pretty enough to die for,” Mike grumbles, the hand not on the door handle tangling in his seatbelt, like he’s making sure he’s strapped in securely.

“He is,” Richie murmurs, distracted, thinking about Eddie’s dark eyes, his plush mouth. He almost misses the next turn, and Mike and Bill both yell at him when his truck skids a little.

They make it to the event center without incident, though Bill stumbles out of the backseat on shaky legs. Richie isn’t entirely convinced he won’t throw up, but he doesn’t have time to stand by and ridicule Bill’s weak stomach. There is a cute boy waiting for him.

Beverly finds him before he can find Eddie. She’s gorgeous in a green dress that bounces around her knees, her hair pinned back from her face with elaborate silver clips. Her bright red lipstick is the kind made with witch magic and doesn’t smear across his cheek when she kisses him, somehow. “Glad you could make it,” she says, sounding amused.

“Haven’t you ever heard of being fashionably late?” he asks, trying to pretend he’s giving her his full attention even as he scans the room.

“I would quite literally never take fashion advice from you,” she says, smoothing down the collar of his shirt. “Who did you borrow the suit from? It looks nice.”

Richie raises an eyebrow at her. “What makes you think it’s not mine? I do have some taste, you know.” She stares at him for a few long seconds, and he relents. “It’s Bill’s.”

She nods, like she already assumed that. Her mouth is open to say something else, but Richie’s eyes finally, _finally_ fall on a short, sweet-faced brunette across the room, and he’s already walking away from her, as if drawn to Eddie magnetically. “We’ll talk later, Bev. Love you, bye!” he calls over his shoulder. She looks a little miffed at the sudden dismissal, but she lets him go.

He’s about halfway across the room when Bill and Mike find him again.

“Captain Cockblock,” Richie says, nodding sagely in Mike’s direction. “Guardian of the Genitals,” he says, to Bill.

Bill looks unimpressed. “The very l-last thing I want is to guard your juh-genitals,” he says flatly.

Richie grins. “You couldn’t keep up anyway.”

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Mike asks.

Richie gestures at the corner table where Eddie is sitting with a long-legged, curly haired man. Stan, Richie thinks, and tries not to hate the way Eddie has his body angled into his. He’s not allowed to feel jealous when he hasn’t even kissed Eddie yet.

Bill looks at Eddie and then claps Richie on the shoulder. “I can honestly say I’ve n-never seen someone who is m-more your type.”

“It’s like he was made for me,” Richie sighs, and he knows Mike is rolling his eyes even without looking.

“We’re going to get a drink,” Mike says. “Go get your boy.” He leads Bill in the direction of the bar with a hand on the small of his back, casually possessive like always. They’re not dating, but they’re also not _not_ dating. Richie has stopped trying to figure out what they are.

Stan and Eddie both look up when Richie’s shadow falls across the table. Eddie’s face lights up. Stan’s does not.

Though Richie knows him on sight, he has never actually met Stan. Stan is, objectively, kind of gorgeous. Not in the same soft, sweet way Eddie is – his angles are sharper, and his expression is calculating, like he can look deep inside and see your soul.

Richie is pretty sure he doesn’t have a soul for Stan to find, so he pulls out the empty chair beside Eddie and takes a seat, refusing to be intimidated by Stan’s cool gaze. “Hello, beautiful,” he says to Eddie warmly. The same flush Richie remembers from the photoshoot spreads across the bridge of Eddie’s nose. It’s as beautiful as he remembers it being.

“Hi, Richie.” Eddie’s voice is soft. Kind of like he’s shy, or maybe fond. They spend a few seconds just looking at each other, and Richie is sure they’re going to kiss, but just as he starts to lean in, Eddie gestures at Stan, who is staring at Richie like he’s trying to figure him out. People look at Richie like that a lot. _Good fucking luck_ , he thinks. “This is Stan,” Eddie says. “My agent.”

His agent. Not his boyfriend, not his husband. Stan might be someone Eddie has messed around with before – their casually friendly body language rides the line between very good friends and fuck buddies, a line that has been blurred ever since Mike and Bill started doing... whatever it is they do – but Richie can work around that. He can ruin Eddie for anyone else, he knows he can. He just needs the chance.

“Nice to meet you,” Richie says, as politely as he can manage, and holds his hand out for Stan to shake. Stan’s grip is firm and his hand is a little cold. His entire demeanor is a little cold.

“Likewise,” he says, and he doesn’t quite smile. Richie feels an itch under his skin, the obsessive need to ruin things, to make some stupid joke that will incense Stan further. He’s glad when Mike finally joins them, sitting heavily in the chair on Richie’s right, leaving an empty spot between himself and Stan.

That is, he’s glad until Mike opens his big fucking mouth. “You’re Stan, right?” Stan nods slowly, looking a little bit like he’s reluctant to offer up that information. Mike grins and says, “Oh, good. Richie wanted me to find out if you’re a top or a bottom.”

“What?” Eddie’s voice is almost a shriek.

“ _What_.” Stan’s voice is eerily flat.

“What the _fuck_ , Michael.” Richie’s voice is more of a hiss than anything.

Mike smiles at all of them, looking very pleased with himself. Bill joins them then, and he’s stifling a grin with his hand, like he knows exactly what Mike just did. They probably planned this, the bastards.

“I’m B-Bill,” he says, breaking the tension in a way only Bill Denbrough can. He takes the seat next to Stan, offering Stan his hand, who very visibly hesitates before shaking it. “I’m suh-sorry about my friends. Mike l-loves drama, and R-Richie is an idiot.”

“Clearly,” Stan mutters, which, hey. Offensive.

“Stan, I promise I was talking about your sex life with only the purest intentions,” Richie says solemnly.

Stan eyes him, and his insane cheekbones and turned down mouth make him look very intimidating. “What makes you think I’m gay?”

It’s kind of like the air gets sucked from the room. Richie would have bet cold, hard cash – in fact, he _did_ bet cold, hard cash – on Stan being gay. But if he’s not, then that’s… offensive, at best.

Mike and Bill look similarly uncomfortable, shifting in their seats, looking at Richie like they’re expecting him to dig them out of this mess.

“I…”

Eddie’s small hand touches Richie’s arm. “He’s fucking with you,” he says with a conspiratorial little smirk. “Stan’s gayer than I am.”

“No one is gayer than you are,” Stan says, his chin tilted haughtily. “But I’m a close second,” he concedes, and then he smiles, very slowly. It’s kind of like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds, warm and welcome.

Bill looks a little bit dazed by it, his eyes dropping to Stan’s mouth. Richie watches Mike reach for Bill under the table, his big hand probably falling on Bill’s thigh even as his gaze is steady on Stan. Richie knows exactly what that means. _Thought you weren’t planning on sleeping with him?_ Richie wants to say, but he has already dug himself a pretty deep hole. He doesn’t particularly care about offending Stan because that ship has probably sailed, but Eddie is surveying him like he doesn’t quite know what to think. He has removed his hand from Richie’s arm, and Richie already misses the warmth of it.

“I’m gonna be honest here,” Richie says.

“That sounds like it’s a new thing for you,” Stan says.

Richie chooses to ignore that. “I only brought Mike and Bill as a distraction so that I could smuggle Eddie away from you.”

Stan looks from Richie to Bill to Mike. A corner of his mouth ticks up, and he leans his elbow on the table, his chin propped in his hand. “And how were they planning to distract me?” He puts a certain emphasis on the word _distract_ , which, wow. Richie didn’t expect that. At his side, Eddie makes a surprised little noise.

Mike smiles, that easygoing grin that everyone always falls for. “Oh, we only agreed to come for free booze,” he says, lifting his drink almost like a toast in Stan’s direction. “But now that we’re here, we might as well stick to the plan.”

“We’re fluh-flexible like that,” Bill agrees, angling his body towards Stan. Their knees are probably close together, under the table. Richie cannot believe his own luck. He doesn’t even comment on Bill’s flexibility, scared to break the spell.

There is suddenly warm breath on his neck. “Did you bring your hottest friends in the hopes that Stan would find one of them attractive?” Eddie’s voice sounds very amused.

Richie turns so their faces are close together. He talks low, so that Eddie is the only one who hears him. He does not miss the way Eddie shivers. “Actually, all of my friends just happen to be hot. And they, apparently, happen to be your friend’s type.”

Eddie smiles. “Stan’s type is hot boy.”

Richie makes a noncommittal noise, because now that his plan is actually working and Stan is focused on his friends, he’s not particularly interested in talking about Stan. “What about you?” he asks, fully facing Eddie for the first time, slotting one knee between Eddie’s and scooting his chair in closer. “What’s your type?”

“I like ‘em tall,” Eddie says, his voice still soft. “Dark hair, dark eyes. Dorky glasses. Real good with a camera.” Eddie peers at him through his lashes. Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the swoop his stomach does when Eddie looks at him like that. “You seem to be playing matchmaker tonight, think you can find someone for me?”

“I’ve got someone in mind,” Richie murmurs, and he starts to lean in. Eddie’s face tilts up and this is it, this is it, this is _it_.

Except Stan’s sharp voice says, “Hey!” and they jolt apart before their lips can touch, looking very much like scolded schoolchildren.

Stan has a long finger pointed accusingly in Richie’s direction. “I’m not that easy. You’ll have to work harder than that before I’ll let you defile my client at a public event.”

Richie should have expected that. “Will it help if I get you a drink?” he asks, tilting his chin at Stan’s nearly empty wine glass.

Stan picks up the glass and swishes the last few sips around the bottom of it, his expression considering. “It’s a start.”

“In that case, I’ll be right back.” He stands. Eddie looks up at him, and he’s so damn pretty that Richie has to touch him, has to slide his fingers across Eddie’s cheek, has to cup his chin. “Don’t forget me, my love.”

“You’ll be gone for two seconds,” Eddie says, but he sounds a little bit strangled, like he enjoys being touched by Richie as much as Richie enjoys touching him. Richie swipes his thumb over that gorgeous bottom lip and then drops his hand before Stan can yell at him for it, hurrying away to the bar.

It isn’t until the bartender asks him what he’s having that he realizes he doesn’t know what kind of wine Stan drinks.

“A glass of red?” he asks, hopefully. The bartender eyes him, but he must look as uncultured as he is, because she shakes her head and selects a bottle seemingly at random from a lineup that consists of at least thirteen different wines. He doesn’t ask what it is, and she doesn’t tell him. He gets a whiskey sour for himself, and drains about half of it on his way back to the table.

Stan eyes the glass distrustfully when Richie presents the wine to him, but he surprises them all and actually takes a sip. He gives a hum that tells Richie absolutely nothing about what he’s thinking, and slowly lowers the glass to the table.

“This is good,” he says, after an agonizing moment. “What is it?”

“A shot in the dark,” Richie admits, and he is rewarded with another of Stan’s slow smiles. It’s kind of nice, having it directed his way. He gets the feeling that won’t be happening often.

Eddie leans into him again as soon as he sits down. “Keep feeding him wine and you’ll be able to steal me away sooner than later,” he whispers.

“In that case, I’m gonna go ask for the whole bottle,” Richie whispers back. Eddie’s smile is so bright and gorgeous that he feels a little bit like he’s pinned to his chair.

Stan has fallen back into conversation with Bill and Mike. Both of them are listening to him raptly, and Mike says something at one point that makes Stan actually laugh, short and bright. While he’s distracted, Richie reaches under the table and laces his fingers through Eddie’s. Eddie squeezes his hand. Richie feels a little bit like his heart is going to burst out of his chest.

“You’re being surprisingly quiet,” Eddie tells him.

“Just taking in the scenery,” Richie says. His eyes have not wavered from Eddie’s face. Eddie goes red. Richie wants to know if he’d flush like that in bed, but he also wants to know if Eddie would flush like that from the cold, or from just a kiss. He wants to know everything about Eddie.

It’s such a new, good feeling that it makes Richie uncomfortable, and so he does what he always does when things are going too smoothly: he says something stupid.

“So, Eddie,” he says, leaning in as close as he thinks Stan will allow him. “I’ve gotta know.” Eddie tilts his head curiously, and Richie already regrets the words even as they leave his mouth. “Are you as much of a bottom as you look? Cause me and Bev have a bet going.”

He expects Eddie to jerk away, or punch him, or tell him off. He does not expect Eddie to give a startled laugh, hiding it quickly behind his hand. “Guess you’ll have to find out,” he says, his voice amused and a little sing-songy.

Richie has never been in love before, but he thinks it’s gotta be something like this.

* * *

The night is going surprisingly well.

Eddie is a little bit tipsy, but that isn’t saying much. Stan is similarly a lightweight, and his face is pink from the three glasses of wine Richie has fetched him. He has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and is talking animatedly with Mike and Bill about something. Bill is actively participating in the conversation, only marginally impeded by his stutter, and Mike is mostly quiet, just watching the two of them talk. He’s leaning back in his chair, his thick arms crossed, and he looks good, even to Eddie. They all do.

Especially Richie. God, Richie. He has disappeared to get them all another round of drinks, and Eddie is seriously considering going after him. Finding him, taking him by the hand and leading him to some dark corner where they can finally, finally kiss.

Kissing Richie is all he can think about.

He probably could. Stan isn’t paying him any attention anymore, and Richie very clearly wants to. He has made his interest clear all night, his gaze falling to Eddie’s mouth every time Eddie speaks, his body swaying forward every so often like he forgets to hold himself back. It’s driving Eddie crazy.

He’s snapped from his thoughts when a hand falls onto his arm. He thinks for a second that Richie has returned, but when he looks up, Stan is staring at him, long fingers curled around Eddie’s wrist.

“Where did your boyfriend go?” he asks, and his voice sounds only vaguely mocking.

“To get you more wine,” Eddie says. Stan looks at his empty wine glass and blinks slowly, looking very surprised to find it empty. Then he grins at Eddie. He’s less tight-lipped when he’s drunk, freer with his smiles. It suits him.

Mike and Bill must think so, too, because they’re both watching Stan when Eddie glances at them. Bill catches Eddie’s eye, and he gives a tiny embarrassed grin. He looks bashful and sweet, and Eddie can definitely see the appeal even through his Richie-colored glasses. Mike glances down at Bill and then follows his gaze to look at Eddie, too. His smile is not nearly as shy but is just as attractive.

“They’re cute,” Eddie says to Stan under his breath.

Stan gives a dreamy little sigh that Eddie plans on making fun of for the rest of forever. “Yeah.”

Mike’s arm falls heavy over the back of Bill’s chair and he leans in close to whisper in Bill’s ear. Something about it looks intimate. “Are they… together?” Eddie asks. Surely it’s come up.

Stan shrugs. “They say they’re not.”

He doesn’t sound very convinced. Eddie isn’t, either. The secret smile Mike and Bill share across the table is painfully familiar. It’s a lover’s smile. “You don’t believe them?”

Stan is skeptical at the best of times. Eddie is not surprised when he shakes his head. “They look like they’re together.”

“You can’t tell just by looking.”

“You can tell a lot by just looking.”

Eddie presses his lips together, feigning disappointment. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to judge a book by its cover?”

“I’m not judging their covers. Just what they’re doing under them.” Eddie can’t help but laugh at that, and Stan looks rather pleased with himself. “Besides,” he continues, his voice soft and teasing in the way it only is in the company of good friends and red wine. “Only models and ugly people listen to that saying.”

Eddie is only mildly offended. “So I want people to know I’m more than just a pretty face. Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.” Stan looks at him, quiet and fond, and he reaches out to put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Make sure Richie knows.”

Eddie… doesn’t really know what Stan means by that. “Are you telling me not to sleep with him?” he says, and he’s joking, mostly. He hasn’t even kissed the guy yet.

Stan, on the other hand, looks very serious. “That would be very hypocritical of me,” he says, glancing at Bill and Mike again. “I’m definitely going home with one of them.”

“Or both, by the looks of it,” Eddie says, and he’s honestly kidding, but there is a sudden glimmer of want on Stan’s face.

“Yeah,” he sighs, much to Eddie’s surprise. “How lucky can one guy get?”

Richie returns then, and he gives Eddie a drink and a smile. The drink is strong and the smile is soft, and Eddie’s entire body feels like it’s buzzing from the alcohol and the attraction.

 _Pretty fucking lucky_ , he thinks, taking the hand Richie rests in his lap.

* * *

Richie is not drunk, so he really cannot explain why the night passes in such a blur. There's drinking, and dancing, and a truly awful selection of music. Someone gives a toast at one point, and everyone claps politely, including Richie, but he could not for the life of him say what he's clapping for. The night, for him, passes by in a fog of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

All he knows for sure is that, one minute, his fingers are laced with Eddie's underneath the table and the party is a cacophony of noise around them, and the next, Eddie is in the passenger seat of his truck, his face illuminated by the passing streetlights. "Take me home," Eddie says to him. His intentions are not pure, but they are clear.

And that's how Richie ends up in the deserted hallway outside of his apartment with Eddie pushed firmly up against his door, lips kiss-bruised and eyes dark.

"This is okay, right?" he asks against Eddie's mouth, bent down into Eddie's space even though he knows his neck is going to hurt like a bitch tomorrow. Eddie is on his tiptoes but there is almost a foot of distance between them when Richie stands up straight. He thinks it's kind of hot, but there is not much about Eddie that isn't.

"It's okay," Eddie promises, his arms closing around Richie, his hands delving into Richie's hair. "It's better than okay."

Richie manages to slot his key into the lock without untangling himself from Eddie. They almost fall into the entryway when the door swings open. Eddie is laughing. Richie would be, too, except that Eddie doesn't pull his fingers free when he stumbles and he ends up yanking Richie's hair, hard. It makes his knees go a little weak.

Eddie's laughter fades slowly into a smile, and he drops his hands to Richie's chest, opening the first few buttons of Richie's dress shirt. "I expect the grand tour tomorrow," he says, backing Richie down the dark hallway, Richie's shirt falling open under his clever fingers. "But right now, I only care about your bedroom."

"Why, Mr. Kaspbrak," Richie says in a stupid Southern accent that should ruin the mood but somehow doesn't at all. "How presumptuous of you."

"I'll show you presumptuous," Eddie says, and his hands fall lower, unbuckling Richie's belt.

 _You could not be more perfect_ , Richie thinks, but then they're in Richie's bed and Eddie is naked and underneath him, and _God_ he was wrong about that. He was so, so wrong.

* * *

When Eddie wakes up the next morning, it isn't to the sound of Stan's ringtone for once.

He comes alive in slow increments, shifting and stretching. He has not forgotten the night before - he doesn't think he ever will - and so he is not at all surprised about waking up in a bed that is not his own. His eyes crack open, and he takes sleepy stock of Richie's bedroom. It's as chaotic as he expects. There are about six different camera lenses on the already cluttered desk, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase absolutely stuffed with books and tapes and vinyls, a small pile of clothes that may or may not be dirty. Eddie itches to tidy things.

"Good morning," Richie's voice says. Eddie lifts his head. Richie is sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with a bowl of cereal in his lap. His hair is as messy as his room.

Eddie sits up slowly. The sheets are draped low on his hips, and he's naked beneath them. Richie is wearing only his boxers. Eddie remembers every scorching detail of the night before, but he still manages to blush when Richie stares at his exposed hipbones.

"What time is it?" he asks, a groggy croak. His throat feels sort of tender, which probably has a lot to do with the way Richie had cradled Eddie's head in his hands and slowly pushed his dick down Eddie's throat. The reminder makes him feel hot and cold all over.

Richie looks similarly distracted by the rough quality of Eddie's voice, blinking a couple of times. He's not wearing his glasses yet, but his eyes still look kind of big. "Uh." He recovers, scooping his phone off the bed. "Almost 9."

"Shit." Eddie rubs a hand over his face. "I have to be somewhere at 10."

Richie opens his mouth, and then closes it again without saying anything. Eddie sees the question on his face, though, and takes pity on him.

"My college roommate and I always do brunch on Saturday mornings," he explains. "It makes us feel better about being too busy for each other the rest of the week."

Richie's entire face lights up. Eddie wonders how long it will take for his breath not to catch every time Richie smiles. "Bev and I do the same thing!" He pauses. "Well, not at 10. We have a strict 'no plans before noon' policy."

"You should make an exception," Eddie says without thinking. "Come with me."

"Bev will kill me if I go without her," Richie says, but he looks like he's considering the offer.

Eddie shrugs. "So bring her. I want to thank her for the clothes anyway. I didn't get a chance last night." _Mostly because I was so focused on getting out of them_ , Eddie thinks, but doesn't say. Richie's smile goes crooked like maybe he's thinking the same thing.

"Okay," Richie agrees. "Do you mind if I invite Bill and Mike? They'll get butt-hurt if I don't. They probably won't come, I'm sure they're still occupied." He emphasizes _occupied_ with a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows, and Eddie muffles his laugh with a hand clamped over his mouth. He's scared to laugh at Stan's expense. Stan has weird supersonic hearing for shit like that.

"I don't mind." He leans over the side of the bed and fishes around for his pants, digging his phone out of the pocket. He sends a text to Ben ( _A couple people might be joining us for brunch, hope that's okay!_ and a text to Stan ( _I require pancakes and gossip. Brunch?_ ) and then looks at Richie, who tries to pretend he wasn't staring at the new, bare inches of skin Eddie's movement exposed. Eddie smiles to himself.

Unsurprisingly, Ben is fine with the new additions to their brunch date. Surprisingly, Stan agrees to come. Eddie thinks maybe that means Mike and Bill won't, because that just seems like the sort of behavior that follows a spontaneous threesome, but Mike, Bill and Bev all accept the invitation.

"This should be interesting," Eddie says, and Richie gives a vague agreement, but he mostly stares at Eddie the same way he did the night before, right before he backed Eddie up against the door of his apartment and kissed him for the first time. Eddie swallows and fists his hands in the sheets, almost defensively. "We should get dressed."

"In a minute," Richie says, and he puts his bowl of cereal on the desk, knee-walking up the bed. Eddie bites his lip when Richie leans over him, sure Richie is going to push him back onto the bed, but Richie only grabs something off of the bedside table. He leans back, and Eddie almost laughs at the sight of a camera in his hands. "I told you," Richie says, grinning, "the studio bed is not the only one I wanna take pictures of you in."

Eddie lies back obediently against the pillows. He smiles, the shutter clicks, and Richie makes a sound almost exactly like the one he had made when Eddie kissed his throat just right the night before.

"You look so good," Richie murmurs from behind the camera, sounding honest and admiring. "I could take pictures of you forever."

Eddie stares at Richie's big hands, his pink mouth, his wild hair. He doesn't think spending forever just like this sounds bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A ONESHOT AND IT HAS BECOME A MONSTER. I BLAME ALL OF YOU.
> 
> Next up: the brunch date, complete with all the Losers.


	4. the (after) life of the party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the Fall Out Boy song.

"When you said a couple people might be joining us," Ben says, "I expected one or two."

His soft voice somehow carries over the general din of the restaurant. It's nearing eleven on a Saturday morning, and the place is packed. The corner booth Eddie and Ben always favor is not made for seven people, but they've managed. Ben is shoved up against the wall, and his broad shoulders only fit because Beverly is slight enough to slot perfectly between him and Eddie. Opposite them, Bill and Mike and Stan are all squished together. The bench seat is not designed to hold three grown men, but none of them look altogether displeased to be squeezed together so tightly. Richie has pulled up a chair to the end of the booth and is straddling it backwards, like the tool he is.

Eddie glances at Ben over Bev's head and tries to look sheepish. He doesn't manage it at all. "Maybe I should have said a few."

"Isn't a few supposed to be three?" Stan asks. "You still would have been wrong." He's between Mike and Bill and does not look at all upset about it.

Richie leers at him. "I'd believe him, Ben. He seems to be the expert on threesomes."

Ben laughs, then covers his mouth with his hand like he didn't mean to. Stan's lips thin. He looks like he's trying very hard to look upset, but it's not really working. His eyes are still bright and happy. Eddie has never seen him in such a good mood. He's going to send Mike and Bill the nicest fruit basket money can buy.

"So." Bev leans her elbow on the table and props her chin in her hand. Her hair is loose and wavy this morning, falling down her back. She looks soft and sleepy, like maybe being awake before noon is a foreign concept to her. "What do you do for a living, Ben?"

Ben's smile is both a little shy and a little proud. "I'm an architect."

"Fancy," Richie says.

"Ben is better than all of us," Eddie announces proudly. Ben's face flames as red as Beverly's hair.

Stan cups his hands around his steaming mug of coffee. "I would argue, but it's true," he says, taking a careful sip.

Eddie and Stan had come together out of necessity in grade school, the only children who cared about keeping their knees unscraped and their noses clean. All of Eddie's formative memories involve Stan in some way. Stan was his only friend for a long time, but more than that, Stan was his _best_ friend. He remembers knowing that even if he had a million people to hang out with, he would always want to hang out with Stan first.

They were inseparable. Eddie followed Stan to college, and Stan had haunted Eddie's dorm so often that Ben claims he didn't know which of them was his roommate at first. It hadn't mattered. Ben had fallen in with them so easily it was like they had all always been friends.

Eddie remembers what it had felt like, meeting Ben. When Ben had smiled at Eddie and shook Stan's hand, there had been a quiet, understanding _oh_ in the back of Eddie's brain. He had looked at Stan, and he had just known that Stan had felt it, too. They had both known, instantly, without doubt, that they were meant to be friends with Ben Hanscom.

Looking around the table then, taking in Bill's smile and Mike's open-mouthed laugh, the way Richie talks with his hands and the bright spark of Bev's wide eyes, Eddie feels it again. This is where he's meant to be: right here, right now, surrounded by these people. Eddie doesn't necessarily believe in destiny, but if he did, he's sure it would feel a lot like this.

Eddie tunes back into the conversation when the food arrives. Richie pauses in his story just long enough to thank the waitress before continuing, more emphatically than before. One of his flailing limbs nearly smacks Eddie in the face. "Sorry, sweetheart," Richie says, off-handed, and resumes talking before Eddie can recover from the pet name. He just knows, when he looks up, Stan is going to be making fun of him across the table.

Except Stan is not looking at him at all. Eddie watches Stan watch Bill lift a strip of bacon to his mouth and take a truly impressive bite out of it. "Stan," Eddie says, and Stan gives him a distracted hum of acknowledgment but does not look away. "If you play tonsil hockey with Bill after he's eaten pork, is that kosher?"

Stan finally drags his gaze away long enough to give Eddie a flat look.

"Kosher?" Richie interrupts, distracted from his own conversation. "You're Jewish?"

"Yes," Stan says, very slowly, like he's already anticipating the joke.

Richie squints at him. "But your nose is so normal."

Stan reaches across Bill so he can punch Richie in the chest. Eddie punches Richie's side at the same time. Neither of them are gentle about it, but Richie does not even seem fazed, cackling loudly.

"You'll have to forgive Richie," Beverly says, though she's very poorly hiding a smile.

"He was druh-dropped on h-his head as an infant," Bill adds.

"Is that what ruined his face?" Stan mutters, almost to himself. A handful of seconds pass, where Bev looks at Bill and Richie looks at Ben and Mike looks at Eddie, none of them sure if serious Stanley Uris actually made such an underhanded joke, and then they're all laughing, loudly, even Richie.

"I deserved that one," Richie says. He holds his hand out across the table. "Truce?"

Stan eyes him warily, but he starts to put his hand in Richie's. Beverly reaches out to stop him. "Don't trust him just yet," she says. "We have business to discuss."

Stan yanks his hand back like he's been burned. "Are you going to tell me about all of his communicable diseases?" he asks, and there is only the slightest twitch of his lip to indicate he's joking.

"Hey!" Richie cries. "We _just_ called a truce."

"We didn't shake on it," Stan says, rather smugly.

"As far as I know," Mike interjects, "Richie doesn't have any communicable diseases. You don't have to look so worried, Eddie."

They all look at Eddie then, whose face has gone pale. He flushes under the attention and reaches for the hand Richie still has stretched over the table, a distraction. "I'm not worried," he mutters, and for the most part he's really not.

"Even if I did have something - which I _do not_ ," Richie chimes in, glaring daggers at Stan, "it wouldn't matter." He flashes them all a dirty little smirk that makes Eddie feel both embarrassed and a little turned on. "We used a condom."

Eddie frees his hand from Richie's so he can hide his face with it.

"Oh my God," he moans, mortified.

"Oh my _God_ ," Stan groans, disgusted.

"Oh my God!" Bev squeals, delighted.

Richie shoves a forkful of scrambled egg into his mouth, seemingly satisfied. Eddie has the thought that he's never going to sleep with Richie ever, _ever_ again, but then Richie's free hand reaches under the table and grips his thigh, rubbing a little pattern there with his thumb, and Eddie thinks _okay, maybe one more time_ a little hazily.

"So," Ben says, giving Eddie a little knowing look, like he knows exactly what's happening beneath the table. Eddie goes red again and grabs Richie's hand, pinning it against his own thigh to keep those wandering fingers from creeping up any further. "What's this business we have to discuss?"

Beverly's face does something interesting, looking both serious and playful at the same time. She laces her fingers together and places them primly on the tabletop. Her back is ramrod straight. She would look professional except her hair is a messy halo around her face and her mouth is trying to tug into a smile.

"It is time to discuss-" A dramatic pause, "-the bet."

Bill groans.

"Wait, you guys were serious about that?" Mike says, sounding surprised.

"When have I ever not been serious about $20?" Richie asks.

"One time you were s-so hungover you puh-paid me $20 not to t-talk to you," Bill says.

Richie stares at him. "Yes, and I was very serious about it."

"You tried to get me to eat a worm for $20," Mike adds flatly.

"No offense, but middle school with you guys sounds like hell," Stan says.

"Oh, no, that was last year," Mike says back.

Eddie takes his hand off Richie's, puts it on the table, and says, very seriously, "If you guys made a bet about whether Richie could fuck me or not, I will get Ben to punch all of you in the face."

Ben looks a little bit caught. On one hand, he is not the kind of guy who goes around punching near-strangers in the face. On the other hand, Ben is very clearly protective of Eddie, and those meaty fists look like they could pack a serious punch.

"It's not that, exactly," Richie says, a little slowly, looking around for help.

Eddie narrows his eyes and pushes Richie's hand from his lap. "What is it, then? _Exactly._ "

Richie makes eye contact with Mike, who gives him a look that says _you're on your own_. Bill won't even look at Richie. _Coward_ , Richie thinks, even though it's not at all true. Bill is the bravest man Richie knows; he just knows how to pick his battles. Richie has never been very good at that.

"It was a stupid bet," Richie starts.

Stan's eyebrows shoot up. "You made a stupid bet? _You_ , of all people?" His sarcasm is cutting.

Richie glares at him. "I hope you rode Bill and Mike even half as hard as you're riding my nerves right now."

Mike chokes on nothing and Bill finally looks up. His face is pink but he looks ready to argue. Stan opens his mouth first. "I did," he says, very calmly, picking up his coffee and taking a very smug sip.

"Well, that's one question answered," Beverly says, not even attempting to conceal her amusement.

Eddie's head whips around to face her. "That was part of the bet?"

Richie holds his hands up. "Just listen to me for a second, would you?" Eddie wants to argue, but Richie tacks on a soft little "Please?" and Eddie has yet to deny him anything, so he motions for Richie to continue.

Richie takes a deep breath and says, all in one breath, "You told me you were going to the event with Stan and I kind of panicked because I thought maybe you guys were together but Beverly said she was pretty sure both of you like getting fucked and I didn't believe her so she made a bet with me because I have no impulse control and I always take bets no matter what and so she bet that you were gay and that you're both bottoms because she was just trying to convince me that you guys weren't fucking so that I would actually make a move and in hindsight it's kind of creepy and weird and I'm sorry." He reaches for Eddie's hand again and says, much more slowly, "Please don't hate me."

Eddie blinks, mostly because he has never heard anyone talk that fast. There is a long silence while they all try to parse out what Richie said, and then they all start talking at the same time.

"He had good intentions," Beverly says, sounding earnest.

"You guys are idiots," Mike says, long-suffering.

"You thought Eddie and I were together?" Stan asks, surprised.

Richie shrugs, looking a little helpless. "I didn't know. You guys seem... close."

Stan rolls his eyes. "So do you and Beverly. Does that mean you're sleeping together?"

Bev shifts in her seat and Richie licks his lips like he's nervous.

"This is a mess," Mike says, putting his face in his hands.

"It was one time!" Richie says defensively.

"Technically twice," Bev says, looking thoughtful.

"It doesn't count if we don't remember it," Richie argues.

Bill shakes his head. "It c-counts if _I_ ruh-remember it."

"Nobody asked you to walk in on us," Richie says, shrugging. "The door was closed."

Bill glares at him. "It w-was _my room_."

"A _mess_ ," Mike groans again. He has not lifted his face out of his hands.

Eddie is very seriously considering walking out of the restaurant when, suddenly, Ben starts to laugh. It's so loud and sudden that they all fall silent, staring at him. "I'm sorry," he manages after a moment, his smile wide, not yet fully calm. "This conversation just sounds so familiar."

Stan suddenly looks very interested in his food and Eddie stares at Ben hard, betrayed.

"Why do I get the feeling we're about to be best friends?" Richie asks, leaning in, giving Ben the full-force of his admittedly short attention span. "Please continue, Ben Handsome."

"I'm not much of a storyteller," Ben says, and cuts Richie off when he starts to argue. "Basically, Stan and Eddie made out a lot in college. They were always drunk, and they never remembered it. It took me years to convince them it actually happened."

"I made out with everyone in college!" Eddie says defensively.

Richie looks at him. "I think I would have liked college Eddie."

Stan shakes his head. "Probably not. You wouldn't have gotten nearly as far with him as you did last night. College Eddie was a pretty proud tease."

"Can we move on, please?" Eddie says from between his fingers, hiding his face in his hands.

"Don't feel bad, Eddie," Mike says, his voice kind. "Bill and I did the same thing in college. We just never really stopped."

"Oh, thank God," Ben mutters, almost to himself. "I didn't want to be the one to ask about that."

"We're not tuh-together." Bill sounds like he's had this conversation before, more than once. "We tried and it d-didn't work."

"But we're still good friends," Mike adds, stretching his arm across Stan's shoulders to brush his fingers against Bill's.

"Friends with benefits," Richie corrects.

Mike shrugs. "Sure. Whatever you wanna call it. Look, the way I see it, the world kind of sucks. I get shit for being black. Bill gets shit for his stutter. I'm sure life isn't all sunshine and rainbows for a male model or a gay Jewish man. So sometimes you've just gotta do what makes you happy. Bill makes me happy." He tightens his arm around Stan. "Last night made me _very_ happy. And that's what it's all about, you know?" He looks around the table. "I just want to be happy. And I want all of you to be happy, too."

They're all quiet, then. Eddie has to blink quickly to stave off sudden tears. It's the most honest, beautiful thing anyone has ever said to him. He laces his fingers through Richie's. The smile Richie gives him makes him pretty damn happy. Mike has a good point, he thinks.

"I hate to interrupt this moment," Stan says quietly. "But I have something to add." He looks directly at Richie and says, "You were wrong."

Richie blinks at him. "You are not the first person to say so. Can I get some clarification?"

Stan smiles, but it's very smug. "I'm not a bottom."

Richie laughs, like it's a joke. "You literally said-"

Stan waves his hand dismissively. "I know what I said."

"You got fucked," Richie says, slowly, like he's trying to explain something to a small child. "Which makes you a-"

"He's a sw-switch," Bill blurts. Everyone looks at him, and he shifts a little uncomfortably, flashing them all a shy grin.

"Oh my God!" Richie crows. "Big Bill got fucked!"

Eddie smacks his arm. "Keep your voice down!" He glances around to make sure no one has overhead, and then slumps down in the booth. "You guys know it's called a private life for a reason, right? You're supposed to keep it _private_."

Richie smiles at him. "Don't worry, Eds. I promise to keep what we did a secret. Especially that little thing you did with your-" Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth. Richie's laugh is hot and wet against his palm.

"I hate you," Eddie tells him seriously.

"No, you don't," all of their friends say, in unison. Even Eddie has to laugh.

It feels stupidly right, all of them crowded together in the small corner booth, laughing and joking like old friends. Eddie takes his hand off Richie's mouth and watches him fish out his wallet, griping the whole time. Beverly beams when he hands her a $20 bill, holding it over her head like a trophy. Stan complains that the money really belongs to him, since he won the bet for her, so she offers to buy his breakfast. Ben explains that won't be necessary; he has already footed the bill. Mike and Bill both protest, clamoring to pay him back, but he waves them off. "Trust me," he says, "the entertainment has been payment enough."

Richie's hand is back in Eddie's lap, but Eddie no longer intends to push it away. He holds it tightly instead, and eyes the table near the back of the restaurant, the long one that's much more suited for a group their size.

He thinks he'll come early next time and snag it.

He has every intention of doing this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is hands-down the silliest thing I have ever written. No ragrets.  
> Thanks for all the support. I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it.  
> I am notoriously bad at answering comments, but I promise I read each and every one of them, and they make me so, so happy.  
> I love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> You guys are always welcome to hit me up on [tumblr](http://namingtheruins.tumblr.com/), whether you have a prompt or just want to be friends.


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